


Surgeon's Hands

by justalittlegreen



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Boys Kissing, Falling In Love, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Smut, Surgeons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:07:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24110299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justalittlegreen/pseuds/justalittlegreen
Summary: How can he explain that all he's ever wanted, since the first time he laid eyes on Hawkeye's hands, was to feel them put him back together?
Relationships: "Trapper" John McIntyre/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Comments: 5
Kudos: 57





	Surgeon's Hands

Hawkeye is a whirlwind everywhere but surgery. Fast, precise, focused. Trapper fell in love with Hawkeye's hands before the rest of him, the way their fingers danced through difficult surgeries. He didn't understand until he realized he couldn't stop staring every time Hawkeye peeled off his gloves. 

It would take a sick man to admit it, but Trapper's jealous of his sutures sometimes, given the way he wields a needle.

It took him too long to kiss Hawkeye the first time - he'd been imagining the expansive, loud, flailing version of Hawkeye. The performance of Hawkeye, really. The idea scared the crap out of him - what could Hawkeye hide? What good were shadows, or even locked doors, if he was kissing an open book?

The first time Hawkeye kisses him, all John can think about are his hands. Hawkeye's got one hand on the back of his neck, the other arm wrapped around his waist, fingers pressing into his skin deliberately. The kiss is silent, even measured, for all the heat coiling in it. Hawk doesn't let him go after their lips stop. 

"You gonna turn me in?" he asks under his breath. Trapper feels a slap of indignation flush his cheeks. A few answers flit across his mind - _I didn't turn the kid in, did I? - What, and follow you to the stockade? - What the hell kind of a question is that?_

He settles on, "That probably wouldn't be a very good way to get you to kiss me again," and he can feel the relief in the way Hawkeye breathes against him, the way the second kiss is more open, looser, but is less a whirlwind than the relief of a good, soaking rain.

For a long time, that's all they do - a kiss, maybe two, and then a disciplined hurrying along to whatever plausibly deniable activity they might conjure. There are rules, unspoken ones - never in the Swamp, never outside, never in the showers. They do, however, kiss in the latrine, and Hawkeye can't even bring himself to complain about the smell.

And then, a lull. A spectacular lull, nine straight days of boredom. Henry gets on the phone with I-corp, makes them swear a hundred times that there's not a push coming for another week, and then kicks as many people as he can out of camp. Hot Lips and half the nurses. Klinger. Even Mulcahy gets a pass to Seoul for a few days. Frank is indignant and sulky. He tears off for Margaret's tent, taking his pillow with him. On the third night he doesn't come back, Trapper rolls down the sides of the tent and waits for Hawkeye to come back from the showers.

Hawkeye gets the message as soon as he comes in. Without looking at Trapper, he digs out the record player and puts on something loud enough to cover them, and soft and schmaltzy enough that anyone else awake might appreciate the soundtrack. Trapper meets him in the middle of the tent, feels Hawkeye's hand come around the back of his head, so familiar now, his lips inciting more warmth than flame.

The don't usually talk. They don't usually kiss more than once, either, but tonight they keep going, stubble and tongue, his lip caught in Hawkeye's teeth, those persistent, glorious fingertips reaching into his hair. 

"Come to bed with me," Trapper says before he can stop himself. Hawkeye throws a dubious look at the cot, but Trapper has a plan. He's stolen a few mattresses from the out-of-town folks and laid them in the most discrete part of the tent, prays Mulcahy will forgive whatever sin he's about to commit on the good Father's bed. Hawkeye eyes the setup appreciatively and nods, dropping to his knees, and then lying on his side. 

Trapper joins him, and they go back to kissing until Trapper is hard enough to feel the teeth of his zipper against his cock. He rolls onto his back, leaving one hand lingering in Hawkeye's hair, breathing hard, trying to figure out how to traverse the uncharted terrain.

Hawkeye reaches for him, his hand ghosting over the bulge in his pants, hovering on his belt. Trapper reaches down and unbuckles it for him. 

"How do you want it?" Hawkeye asks, and John doesn't know. He's never done this before, not like this, not when he wasn't racing to get to the next part. He does know one thing, though.

"Give a guy a hand, would you, Hawk?" He shoots for casual, even funny, the language of their intimacy, but it comes out wrong, flat, not at all like what he needs to say.

Hawkeye seems to understand, though, and slips his hand under his shorts. Trapper's startled by his touch, at once awake and on fire with the newness of it, the terrifying unfamiliarity of another man's hand, while also being able to picture every crease on Hawkeye's knuckles, every deliberate stroke of his fingers. He's been studying these hands forever, imagined them on him more times than he cares to count. It's nothing like he imagined, and exactly like he pictured.

Hawkeye is focused, not smiling or laughing, none of the usual uncontained joy he's come to associate with Hawkeye's passions. No, this bears much more resemblance to the way he does surgery, practiced and skilled. John realizes that Hawkeye never celebrates a surgery until it's done, which probably means that he won't get to see how Hawkeye feels about any of this until - oh.

He lies back, hands pillowed behind his head as Hawkeye works him over better than he's ever done in his dreams. Trapper's cock is unabashedly weeping into his hand, giving him more and more slick to work with, and the unfamiliarity has dissolved into the novelty of letting someone else push his buttons - masterfully.

He arches into it, plants his feet and tries to meet Hawk's hand with his hips, and that's when Hawkeye finally chuckles, the low, amused, satisfied laugh he finds when he finishes a tricky stitch, or unearths a hidden bit of shrapnel. 

"Can't believe I get to do this," Hawkeye murmurs to him. "Can't believe you did this here. Do you know how many times I've dreamed about this, Trap? How many times I've woken up confused because I could swear you were in bed with me?"

Trapper can't answer except to smother a moan into his fist.

"Been wanting this forever," Hawkeye continues in that same smooth voice, the same one he uses when he's talking through a surgery. "Been wanting to watch you come apart in my hands."

 _No,_ John wants to say. _It's not coming apart at all._ How can he explain that all he's ever wanted, since the first time he laid eyes on Hawkeye's hands, was to feel them put him back together?

"That's it," he says and _Holy Mary, Mother of Grace,_ John is going to melt, or break into a thousand screaming pieces if Hawkeye keeps using lines he's heard across an operating table so many times - he's going to utterly ruin surgery, and John will never again be able to wear scrubs without a heavy dose of saltpeter. 

Hawkeye, of course, seems to know this instinctively, and keeps muttering things so innocuously, Trapper half-expects him to ask for the 3-0 silk or a pair of Metzenbaum scissors. But finally, finally, Hawkeye leans over and kisses him one more time, deep and achingly filthy before whispering, "Finish for me."

John hasn't come that hard, or with so little control, in his entire adult life. He nearly hits his head on Hawkeye's as his entire body clenches, streaking his stomach and Hawkeye's hand. He doesn't even realize he's making sounds until Hawkeye's other hand claps over his mouth, and somehow that makes it even hotter and he goes on, and on, until he's so spent he can't feel his legs.

Hawkeye finds a semi-clean shirt with which to clean him in the same meticulous way, then curls up next to him. Good lord, they haven't even taken their clothes off. They're both sweating and panting, and finally, in the quiet that follows, John feels, rather than hears, Hawkeye's joyful laugh against his side.


End file.
